


One Temporary Escape

by intotheruins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, First Time, M/M, Marijuana, Season 11, Sort Of Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5788726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean needs Cas. That's all Castiel needs to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Temporary Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after 11x08 - Just My Imagination. Title from The Naked and Famous, “Young Blood”. Beta'd by the total awesomeness that is [karmascars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars) :D

“Cas.”

Dean's voice is soft when it dips into Castiel's hazy dreams, coaxing him towards consciousness. Castiel snuffles into the warmth of his pillow. He shouldn't be sleeping with his grace fully restored. It's another reminder of how far he's fallen, though no longer a harsh one. He likes sleeping. He likes the rest, and the dreams.

Castiel nuzzles into smooth material that smells of himself, huffing a reluctant sigh through his nose.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Mm?”

A hand slides onto his shoulder. Fingers curl around his bicep and tighten.

“Wake up.”

Castiel shakes his head. His face presses deeper into the pillow, so deep that he almost can't breathe, but it's warm and dark and it makes him feel safe. The pleasant haze between dreams and waking drifts over him like a humid mist. He thinks he can feel it against his cheek, his throat, and he tilts his head back with a shudder for more of it.

The hand on his arm squeezes tighter.

“Wake up.” The words are whispered right in his ear, pouring more of that heat against his skin. Breath. Not mist. It sets off nerves Castiel wasn't aware he possessed, breaking over him, tingles bursting across the surface before they sink right down into his bones.

“Dean,” he sighs, and opens his eyes.

It's dark. Only a faint glow leaks in through the cracked door, throwing Dean's face into shadow. Castiel can't see his eyes, yet he knows they are intent and narrowed with focus. The hand on his shoulder loosens, massaging a bit. He can feel Dean's breath rushing over his lips.

“You awake?” Dean's voice is only just above a whisper, sleep-rough and low.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah.” Dean squeezes Castiel's shoulder again but doesn't let go.

“Sam?”

“He's okay.” There's warmth in his barely-there tone, pleasure that Castiel cares about Sam as much as he does.

Castiel pushes himself up on an elbow. He stripped down last night, nothing but his boxers between his body and the soft sheets Dean gave him when he moved into this room. It's the first time he's been naked, or near enough, since the sickness caused by having the wrong grace. He doesn't really feel it until the sheet slips down to his waist, and he wonders if Dean can see his skin. Knows that if he can see this well, Dean certainly can. A breath catches in his throat. Vulnerability is a feeling he's come to detest, but right now it excites him.

The hand on his shoulder slides down to cup around his elbow.

Castiel shivers. He's used to wanting Dean, but being accustomed never makes the feeling any less potent.

“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice is husky, just a fraction more actual tone than Dean is using.

“No,” Dean says. “Get up.”

Dean lets his arm go and steps back. He's nothing but a blacked-out shadow against the thin light. Castiel doesn't need to see him to _see_ him. He knows every freckle scattered across Dean's cheeks, the exact shades of green in those eyes. Faintly, he can see Dean's soul, a glimmer where it used to be the sun. Not because Dean is diminished, but because Castiel is. 

With a steadying breath, Castiel slides from the bed. He feels especially naked now, bared in front of Dean. He reaches for the jeans he left folded on a chair. Sam bought the clothes for him last week, blue jeans and black and white t-shirts. He wore jeans when he was human, and he liked how comfortable they were. He doesn't remember why he thought he needed his old outfit. Perhaps for no other reason than it was familiar.

Dean hasn't moved and it's making Castiel nervous, another feeling he could do without. He struggles unseeing into one of the t-shirts.

“Do I need a coat?”

“Yeah.”

Castiel sees Dean twist and pluck something off the hook on the door, a purchase Castiel made all on his own: a dark brown leather jacket lined with fleece. It goes better with his more casual attire, but that isn't the real reason he bought it. The coat is heavy, thick, the fleece soft and warm. It makes him feel as though he is wrapped in an embrace. Just a little less alone.

He accepts it from Dean with a sigh. He knows he's not alone. He will always have the Winchesters, always. It's just that sometimes he finds himself wanting more, and he doesn't even know what more is.

Out in the main room, the light is stronger. Castiel can see how tired Dean is. The line of his shoulders is stiff, his brow drawn into a tight frown. A muscle in his jaw ticks. Castiel lets himself wander into Dean's space, slowly, so Dean won't notice right away. Not that he notices much anymore, anyway. He stopped telling the angel to back off a long time ago.

This time, he doesn't react at all as he leads Castiel out into the garage. Hands in his pockets, Castiel's gaze lingers on Dean's back, aching to run a palm up the curve of his spine or knead his fingers into those tense muscles. To do anything that might calm him.

It isn't until Dean is easing the Impala out onto the road that Castiel asks, “Where are we going?”

“Out,” is all Dean says.

“Sam?”

“Left him a note.”

Castiel nods. He leans back in his seat, rests his head against the cool window, and watches Dean drive. Occasionally he tosses Castiel the strangest looks. Hard and soft, sadness and need, all descriptors that tumble into Castiel's mind but none of them quite right. Or maybe they're just not enough.

The moon is nearly full, the night crisp and clear. It becomes even clearer as they head out into the country. The lack of artificial light is relaxing. Castiel tips his head back to watch the stars, more and more of them visible the further they get from civilization. Not as many as there once were. He remembers a time when electric light was only a dream, and the blackness of the night sky could hardly be seen through the stars.

He didn't appreciate it at the time. It makes him ache now, how much he didn't truly see.

Dean is quiet. He taps out irregular rhythms into the steering wheel but never turns on the radio. Castiel doesn't mind the quiet, though it is strange. Dean has always seemed to loathe silence. He fights against it at every turn. Castiel has even seen him sleep with headphones firmly pressed over his ears, music pouring from them at such high volume it's surprising he can sleep at all.

A part of Castiel understands. He misses the song of the Host, the certainty that he was never alone. He thinks Dean might seek noise for the same reason.

“Dean,” he says quietly. Just to say it. To remind them both that they aren't alone.

Dean flinches. His fingers flex around the wheel. He tosses Castiel a quick smile, bright and raw but sincere.

Castiel thinks idly about checking the time. He can feel the hard line of his phone pressed against his hip. He drags his finger over the rough denim, tracing the outline, but he never quite dips into the pocket. It's night, that's all he needs to know. The amount of time that passes between the bunker and when Dean pulls off onto an old dirt road isn't important. Castiel was never concerned with time before. It's a human concept. Now that he's more human than angel, it has devoured him just as much as it has devoured the rest of the world. The reprieve is actually rather soothing.

The old road leads through a thick patch of woods to spill out into a field. Dean eases the Impala carefully into the long grass and kills the engine. Castiel can't see anything in the field, no lights even in the distance. Only an old barn several yards away, the roof caved in, and the skeletal remains of a cabin.

“Found it about a year ago,” Dean says suddenly. He's louder now, no longer afraid to wake Sam. His voice is a little hoarse from the long stretch of silence. “Just needed to get away.” He coughs, low in his throat. “I still come out here once in a while. 's quiet.”

Castiel nods. It is very peaceful. “Is that what was wrong? You needed to get away.”

Dean shrugs. “Sort of.”

He turns and looks straight into Castiel's eyes. With a shallow gasp, Castiel returns the gaze. It's not often that Dean is the first to make this kind of contact, but he's learned what it means. If Dean needs him, for whatever reason, Castiel will be here. He doesn't mind if Dean woke him just for that. It feels good to be needed.

Dean gets out of the car after a moment. Castiel follows. It's a little chilly, enough to make him huddle more deeply into his coat. He watches Dean pop the trunk and hears the clink of glass bottles knocking together. Ah, drinking then. He hopes Dean brought him something sweet. Whiskey and tequila are a little strong for his tastes.

The trunk slams closed. Dean comes around to Castiel's side with a brown paper grocery bag tucked in one arm.

“You cold?” Dean asks.

Castiel shrugs. “A little. The alcohol will help.”

Dean flashes him a grin. It's bright in the moonlight, and it makes Castiel smile in return.

Castiel follows Dean into the field. The grass isn't long but it's brittle, crackling when they finally sit down side by side with the bag propped up between them. Dean pulls out four large bottles, and some smaller bottles of water.

A strange assortment of things follows: a lighter, a small folder that turns out to be full of thin white paper, and a little baggie of some pungent, dried plant. Castiel can't tell what it is, even with the moon so full. He picks up the baggie and lets it fall open so that he can smell the plant. It's strong and earthy, almost spicy. Castiel can't decide if he likes it or not.

“Dean?”

Dean looks up from where he's got a bottle braced between his outstretched legs. Castiel glances down to watch the flex of Dean's thighs around the bottle before he catches himself and flicks his eyes back up to Dean's. They're dark in the moonlight, but Castiel can still see that some of the tension has leeched away.

“Yeah?” Dean prompts.

“What are we doing?”

Dean twists the cap off his bottle and tosses it carelessly into the grass. “We're getting drunk. And high. You ever been stoned, Cas?”

Castiel shakes his head. He knows what ston _ing_ is, but also knows Dean doesn't mean that. He sets the baggie down and watches as Dean picks up another bottle, tossing that cap out into the grass to join the other.

“Why didn't we bring Sam?”

Dean thrusts the bottle at Castiel without looking at him. Castiel sighs, but takes the bottle without comment and looks at the label. He can't quite see it in the faint light, so he sniffs delicately and picks up a strong, sharp scent laced with something thick and sweet. Possibly chocolate.

“You don't still need a whole store to get drunk, do you?” Dean asks gruffly.

Castiel shakes his head. “No. This bottle should be plenty.”

Dean nods, satisfied, and tips his own bottle back.

It does turn out to be a chocolate liquor. It's very sweet but still burns as it rushes down into Castiel's stomach. He has to lower the bottle to cough. Warmth pools through him, helping him shake off the chill, and he takes another drink. It's easier this time. He settles back with a contented sigh.

Movement makes him glance over at Dean, who has tucked his legs in. He's got the baggie propped open in the grass in front of him and is picking at the plant inside it. After a moment, he pulls one of the thin papers from its envelope and sprinkles some of the picked-apart plant into it. Then he deftly folds up the paper and rolls it between several fingers. It crackles as he works.

Castiel realizes he's seen this before. Back when he was fully mortal, roaming the streets. It's called weed, he reminds himself. Pot, ganja, bud, or any number of other names he can't recall. A substance used to alter a person's state of mind. Castiel has a rudimentary understanding of drugs in general, but he's never come into contact with any of the others. This one was popular under the bypass, being cheap and easy to obtain, and he knows it is far less harmful than even the alcohol he's imbibing.

He watches as Dean licks at the edge of the paper, quick and confident, then holds it up so that Castiel can see it. “This's a joint,” he says seriously, like this process is as important as learning to fire a gun. “I'll show you how to do it.”

Castiel nods. He watches Dean flick open his lighter and run the flame lightly over the entire joint. “Seals it,” Dean grunts, and Castiel nods again, the attentive pupil. Dean lights one end of the joint and puffs delicately at the other, lips pursed, coaxing the other end into a rich orange glow. He exhales, then sucks hard at the end of the joint, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs.

With a twist of Dean's wrist, the lighter is doused. He's holding in his lungful of smoke as his free hand digs around in the paper bag. An ashtray lands in the grass by Castiel's knee.

Dean lets the smoke waft out between parted lips. Castiel finds himself fascinated by the shape of them. He's lifting his hand before he can stop himself, but fortunately Dean thinks he's reaching for the joint.

“Here.” Dean leans forward and slips it between Castiel's fingers. “Don't pull too hard at first, okay? And suck in a little air once you've got it. Wanna get it really deep.”

Castiel nods. He sets the joint between his lips and pulls in the smoke, then attempts to breathe in like Dean told him to, but his lungs and throat are on fire. He hacks out a cough, losing the smoke in a fit of frantic choking. Each new inhale or exhale is even worse than the last. His throat feels raw, he can't breathe for coughing, and he can't cough without air.

Faintly, he can hear Dean laughing as he gasps. Dean hums at him fondly, rubbing a palm in soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

An open bottle of water hovers in front of Castiel's face. He gulps it down gratefully.

“It gets easier,” Dean assures him. “Wanna try again?”

Castiel coughs again under his breath. As he breathes, he feels a flush of succor through his limbs. Not much, but... He nods and reaches up to take the joint, wondering what another try will do.

Dean pulls it out of reach.

“Here,” he says, and pushes the damp end against Castiel's lips. “Just hold it there.” His eyes linger briefly over Castiel's mouth before flicking upwards again.

The angel holds Dean's gaze as he wraps his lips around the joint, just barely touching Dean's fingers. He breathes in slow, deep, and this time he manages to hold it. It still burns. The taste is strange, just as thick and earthy as the smell. Dean lets out a sharp breath and pulls the joint away, but he doesn't lean back. He sets it carefully in the ashtray and reaches up.

His thumb brushes Castiel's lower lip.

Castiel lets out the smoke in a rush, wheezing around the burn but still unable to look away.

Dean's thumb presses down. Castiel draws in a shaky breath, and flicks the tip of his tongue against Dean's skin. He tastes salt and smoke.

“Cas,” Dean grunts. He snatches his hand away and grabs the joint.

Confused, Castiel picks up his bottle, tipping it back, downing several swallows before he lowers it. Dean is puffing gently on the joint, flaring the ember at its tip brighter and brighter. He sucks down another hit. Castiel watches him, watches his diaphragm expand and the way his lips hang open as the smoke pours out. He draws in another before he passes the joint, and as Castiel gingerly accepts, Dean lets the smoke wend from his nostrils like a dragon. 

Time is still an intangible concept, but Castiel watches it burn away in the shrinking joint and the steadily disappearing alcohol. He takes two more hits when Dean offers. The burn lessens each time. He's beginning to understand why people use this particular drug. His body feels heavy but he's calm, his mind quieted. Everything seems brighter. The moon is incredible. When he mentions it to Dean, the hunter shrugs and says, “Of course it is.”

Even after most of the joint and almost all of the bottle, Dean is only somewhat less sober than he was. Castiel, on the other hand, is comfortably tipsy and very much enjoying his first high. He squeezes his half-empty bottle between his thighs and leans back on his hands, smiling up at the stars. They wink back at him, cheerful and secretive. Dean chuckles at him. It makes Castiel wonder if he said something out loud.

“Nah,” Dean says. “You're just grinnin' like a dope.”

“I feel good.”

“Good.”

They share a quiet laugh.

After a while, the heaviness in Castiel's limbs drives him down onto his back. He tosses his arms over his head in a slow luxurious stretch, wondering at how something that induces a 'high' can make him feel like he's full of sand.

Dean flops down beside him. Castiel still has his bottle clutched between his legs, but Dean tosses his own out into the grass. He stretches out with a tiny satisfied sound.

When he hooks his index finger around Castiel's, neither of them mention it.

“We never got to be kids,” Dean blurts.

It takes a moment for the words to sink through the haze over Castiel's mind. When they do, he tips his head to the side. Dean is staring up at the sky, somehow more relaxed and tense all at once.

“You never even were a kid,” he continues. “You never got to learn to ride a bike, or read comic books, or have an imaginary friend, or do stupid teenage shit like sneak out into a field in the middle of the night and get fucked up.”

He tugs on Castiel's finger.

Castiel shifts so they can wrap their fingers around each other's wrists. “You never had any of that?” he asks quietly.

Dean pauses. “I learned to ride a bike,” he says. “And I did sneak out with chicks, but I only got drunk in bars near the motel. Had to make sure I could get back to Sammy if I needed to. I tried... I tried to make sure he had some of it, you know? The bike, and the soccer team. Stupid-ass school dances. He even had an imaginary friend, too – or, not so imaginary, I guess. Whatever.”

He's squinting at the sky now, his jaw tight with frustration. Castiel squeezes his wrist and rolls to the side, intending to be closer, but the bottle between his legs spills alcohol everywhere. It splashes onto Dean, who lets out a yelp at the chill. Startled, Castiel grunts, releasing Dean's hand to snatch up the bottle. He wraps clumsy fingers around the neck and flings it away, but by then the liquid has seeped into both their jeans and Dean is cracking up, laughing so hard there are tears squeezing from his closed eyes.

Castiel pushes himself up on an elbow and takes in the sight. He lets himself reach out and touch Dean's lips in a mirror of Dean's actions, because he can't not touch him. Not when he's this beautiful.

He's always this beautiful.

“Cas,” Dean gasps against Castiel's fingers. His breath is warm and wet. “I...”

He gazes up at Castiel with awe in his eyes, and Castiel hears the words Dean didn't say. He hears them so clearly he aches.

“Are we being rebellious teenagers?” he asks, guiding Dean gently away from the revelation.

Dean's eyes are wide, terrified with what he almost said but still so warm. So certain. He presses a quick kiss to Castiel's fingers, grateful, and Castiel sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

He surges up and wraps a hand around the back of Castiel's head. Presses their foreheads together.

“Yeah,” he says again, in a rush of bourbon and spice.

His lips when they meet Castiel's are just as plush as they look, and twice as soft.

Castiel closes his eyes. He presses harder into the kiss, moaning soft and incredulous through his nose. Some part of him knew this was where they were headed, but the reality of Dean against him, opening to him, is almost too much. He lets out another breathy moan when Dean swipes his tongue over Castiel's lips, parts them on a whimper when Dean dives inside. Oh, so much noise. He can't help it. He clutches at Dean's shirt when Dean fists a hand in his hair and tugs, doesn't know how to process the pleasurable pain that fires across his scalp.

Dean pulls back to suck in a breath. Castiel falls back into the grass, unable to hold himself up anymore. He keeps his hand clenched tight in Dean's shirt as Dean leans over him, braced on one of his hands by Castiel's head. He doesn't lean in again, just gazes down, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted.

“How drunk are you?” he asks roughly.

Castiel shakes his head. “Not very.”

Dean nods once, tight. “I can't... If I start, I ain't gonna stop.”

“I don't want you to stop.”

Next breath hitching, Dean leans in closer. He smells of whiskey and weed, and when Castiel noses a stubbly cheek he breathes in leather and sweat and a thousand other things his dulled mind can't process.

Dean. It all adds up to Dean.

“I --” _don't want you to stop,_ he tries to say again, only Dean swallows the words down before he can finish.

They can't get close enough. Castiel knocks Dean's hand away so that his bulk crashes down onto him, hooks his legs behind Dean's and thrusts himself forward; it's still not enough. Dean runs his hands through Castiel's hair, murmurs the angel's name between kisses. He works his way down Castiel's jaw, tongue slicking back behind his ear. Teeth sink briefly into the sensitive skin there and Castiel cries out, arching as best he can beneath Dean's weight.

“More,” he pants.

Dean lets out something like a snarl. He lurches up, tucking his knees under himself enough to struggle out of his coat and yank his shirt over his head. So much skin, revealed so fast. Castiel can't resist it. He gets his hands on Dean's back, runs his fingers over rough scars and warm, warm skin. Leans up and sucks a kiss into Dean's throat because he wants to, and he can. Dean sighs, throws his head back, giving Castiel as much access as he needs.

“Off,” Dean manages, pawing ineffectually at Castiel's shirt. He pushes himself up onto his hands and Castiel finds himself trying to follow, wanting the heat of Dean's skin back between his lips and teeth. Dean huffs a laugh, pushes him back down, tugs at his coat with one hand.

“Come on,” he urges, humor and heat. “Get naked.”

Quickly Castiel squirms out of his coat and yanks his shirt off. He's desperate to see Dean, all of Dean, to feel the naked length of Dean's body against his own. It's so human that he can't think through the haze, just knows that he  _wants._ He's always wanted Dean, anything that Dean will give him. It's no less potent now that he has him.

Castiel tries to reach for him again but Dean slides down, crouched on his knees between Castiel's legs. His fingers fumble at the button and zipper of Castiel's fly. The angel goes very still, breath caught in his throat as he feels the fabric loosen. Dean hooks his fingers into the waistband, under Castiel's boxers, and pulls them both down at once. He stops about mid thigh, tongue flicking over his lips, eyes locked on the hardening length of Castiel's cock already curving against his stomach. Castiel isn't sure how he wasn't aware he was already hard, but now that he _is_ he can only think of how much he wants to rub himself against Dean.

His cock twitches.

“Eager much?” Dean teases. But his eyes are wide and even in shadow, there's a pretty flush spreading across his cheeks. He's pleased, Castiel thinks. Dean is pleased that his angel wants him so much.

“You're hard, too,” Castiel points out, eyes snagging on the bulge in Dean's jeans.

Dean just grins. He slides down, pulling Castiel's clothes along with him. He stops to tug off Castiel's shoes, no socks to bother with because they hadn't seemed important when Dean woke him. Castiel doesn't move once he's free, just watches Dean stagger to his feet and strip off the rest of his own clothes.

He's perfect.

His stomach has softened ever so slightly. There are scars scattered over his chest, his hips, his thighs, just visible in the moonlight. His cock is thicker than Castiel's, hanging heavy and fat between his thighs. Castiel licks his lips, an echo of Dean observing him. He crawls up onto his knees and gets one hand on Dean's hip, the other curled around the base of Dean's dick. It's heavy in his hand and hot, so incredibly hot. It hardens further in his grasp. Begging to be tasted.

Castiel leans in.

“Cas.” Dean puts a hand on Castiel's head, restraining just a little. Castiel tilts back to meet his eyes.

“I want to,” he says. Dean relaxes his hold.

Castiel takes just the head into his mouth, tries to keep his teeth out of the way and cups his tongue around it. The flesh trembles in his mouth. He suckles at the taste there, salt and something else, something he can't find a word for. Dean's hand shakes atop his head, petting at him roughly. Castiel hears a soft gasp, and when he tries thrusting his tongue into the slit Dean makes a shuddering whine and curls his fingers into Castiel's hair.

“Cas,” Dean gasps. He tugs once. The angel grunts his displeasure but lets Dean pull him away.

“Wanna fuck you.” Dean's just a little breathless as he says it, and Castiel gasps like it's been punched out of him. “If you want to. You can do me if you want, I don't mind either way.”

Both, Castiel wants both so badly he can hardly think. He strokes his hand up Dean's thick cock, watches Dean's eyes flutter and imagines what it would be like to have that inside him, snug and tight.

“You in me,” Castiel decides, and Dean swears and lunges for the paper bag.

Castiel lays down again, getting as much of himself as he can on his coat because the grass is prickly. He bends his knees and lets his legs fall open, gasping at how vulnerable it makes him feel. He's completely exposed, spread open for Dean to see, to take. He tips his head to the side so he can watch Dean pull a tube and a box from the bag. He tosses them down by Castiel's legs.

Then he grabs his discarded coat, laying it out before he drops to his knees.

“Grass is fuckin' sharp,” he says.

“It is.”

Dean sits back on his heels, eyes raking over Castiel wide and hungry. Castiel shivers, spreading his legs wider, hips canting up in a silent plea. Dean swears again softly, snatching up the tube. He pops the cap over his fingers, squirting on a liberal amount of clear, slick fluid. It's chilly when he rubs the pads of two fingers over Castiel's hole, but the angel hardly notices for the new, fiery pleasure signals, more of them than he would have expected. He shuts his eyes and arches into it, rocking his hips encouragingly.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean pants. “Fuckin' need it, don't you?”

“Yes,” Castiel hisses.

Dean curses again, slides in the first finger.

Castiel goes still as Dean presses in as far as he can. The finger is thick, stretching him open without any pain, but it does feel strange. Invasive. And yet it's not enough. Experimentally, Castiel rocks down against Dean's hand. Dean lets him for a moment, just holds still and lets Castiel fuck himself before he starts to gently thrust. It feels better every time, until Castiel is keening for it, pleading softly for another finger.

“Yeah, shh, I gotcha,” Dean murmurs. He rubs a soothing hand in circles around Castiel's belly as he eases a second slick finger inside.

Two burns a little but it's more. He's fuller. Castiel sighs with a strange kind of relief. Dean thrusts gently a few times before pressing in all the way and smoothing his fingers down against Castiel's inner walls.

White-hot pleasure sears through Castiel, makes him arch his back and rips a scream from deep in his chest. That's your prostate, his hazy brain supplies. Dean grinds a little more before he lets up on it and Castiel sags against the ground, grinning a little crazily. Prostate is good, he decides. Very good.

Dean huffs through his nose. Castiel realizes he said that out loud. Dean presses in again, circling it repeatedly until Castiel is thrashing.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees when he finally lets up and allows Castiel to collapse, boneless. “Pretty damn awesome.”

He pulls his fingers free completely. Castiel clenches around the emptiness, letting out a little sound of displeasure until he sees Dean is just applying more lube. He slides back in with three, which is decidedly more uncomfortable, but Dean rubs his belly and shushes him in low, easy tones until Castiel relaxes, lets him sink in more deeply. The stretch still burns, but the feeling of being full is so satisfying that Castiel can hardly bring himself to care.

“You look so good on my fingers, Cas,” Dean breathes. He's moved in closer, tucked himself against one of Castiel's legs so that his cock rides up along Castiel's thigh. He ruts there absently, eyes fixed on the place his fingers are repeatedly disappearing into Castiel's body. “Fuck, can't wait to be in there.”

“Do it,” Castiel pleads, but Dean shakes his head.

“Not yet. Gotta open you up a little more.”

Castiel groans and lets his head fall back against the ground. He doesn't care if it burns, he just needs to be  _full._ He grinds down against Dean's hand, getting him as deep as he can. Dean bites his lip, teasing Cas's prostate again until Castiel starts to pull away from over-stimulation. 

“Now,” Castiel pants. “Now, Dean, now.”

“Yeah.” Dean eases his fingers out. “Yeah, okay, just hang on.”

Dean grabs his shirt and wipes off his sticky hand. Castiel pushes himself on his elbows, frowning because there is no reason Dean shouldn't be inside him already. Dean has the box in his hand and is tipping something from it. He tears open the little package. When Castiel sees the condom, he immediately shakes his head.

“No.”

“Yes,” Dean responds firmly. “I haven't been tested in a while. We can do it without the condom later, assuming I'm clean.”

The promise of 'later' almost succeeds in derailing Castiel's argument completely.

Almost. “Dean, I have enough grace to cleanse myself of anything you may or may not have.”

Dean shakes his head and rolls the condom on. “I'm not risking it,” he says. He pours more lube into his hand, clasps a loose fist around his cock to spread it down the length before he shuffles forward on his knees. Castiel hooks his hands behind his own knees, pulling his legs up to give Dean better access. He lets out a shaky sigh when he feels the thick head of Dean's cock rub against his entrance.

“I'm not risking _you,”_ Dean says.

He sinks inside before Castiel can respond.

It's better, so much better than Dean's fingers. It's just as tight as he thought it would be, stretching him wide, filling him completely. There's no room for anything but Dean. For a moment Castiel can't even breathe, just stares up at Dean with huge eyes. Dean stares back looking just as openly awed.

“Feels good,” they sigh together.

Dean bends to press a single kiss to Castiel's lips. Then he braces both hands beside Castiel's head and draws out a few inches before sinking back inside.

“No,” Castiel gasps. He wraps his legs around Dean's back, hooks his ankles together and pulls Dean in. “Just... stay here.” He rocks up into Dean.

After a moment, Dean understands. He moves with Castiel, barely a push or pull at all, just moving fluidly with him. It keeps his cock in deep, hits all the right places. Castiel sighs, content. He could just stay like this for the rest of the night. Maybe the rest of his life.

“I don't think – _mmm,_ don't think I've ever done it like this,” Dean murmurs. He drops down to his elbows, barely enough room between them to move at all, just so he can get his lips on Castiel's jaw. “S'nice.”

He finds that place behind Castiel's ear and nibbles at it, soothing the stings with flicks of his tongue. He presses a line of kisses down to Castiel's shoulder, and then just buries his face in the angel's throat. Castiel tucks his cheek in against Dean, sucking a kiss of his own into Dean's shoulder just to taste him, to feel the heat of him. He runs his hands up Dean's back, feels the tension in Dean's muscles as he tries to keep himself up on his arms.

“I can take it,” Castiel mumbles against Dean's skin.

Dean shudders and lets his full weight down. He leaves his face burrowed in Castiel's throat, and after a moment the angel can feel Dean's hand groping at the ground above his head.

“Give me...” he mumbles, then rears back. “Fuck. Gimme your damn hand, Cas.”

Castiel throws a hand over his head and Dean grabs it, laces their fingers and pins them there in the brittle grass. He jams his face back where it was. His deep breath presses their bodies together even closer.

Like this, they can barely move properly, but they still manage a steady rock. Castiel's cock is pinned between their stomachs, trapped in softness and heat. It's going to be enough. He can already feel it building deep in his belly, his balls drawing up tight. He ruts up a little more frantically, sucking at Dean's shoulder like it will get them both there that much faster.

“Cas,” Dean growls into his shoulder. He rolls his hips, his cock swelling inside Castiel, and the angel clenches just to hear Dean sob his name again, just so Dean will move faster.

It doesn't take long at all, and no more friction than this.

When Castiel comes, he feels it everywhere. It spreads outward from his core in a steady, dizzying wave. Shuddering through it, he sighs into Dean's skin, clenching around him still moving so deep inside. Dean's answering shout is muffled against Castiel's throat.

Dean pushes himself up, just enough to properly thrust, to lift his head and look straight into Castiel's eyes. Every movement brushes against Castiel's spent cock, almost too much, but he doesn't look away no matter how much he wants to close his eyes against it all. He needs to see Dean fall apart. He clenches around Dean's cock again.

That's all Dean needs.

“Cas, fuck!” Dean squeezes Castiel's hand and plunges down, pressing their foreheads together until it's just a little painful. His hips stutter against Castiel's and go still, the barest new warmth in Castiel's body perhaps the most intimate moment of all.

Dean sighs. Castiel catches it in a kiss so he can swallow it down.

Neither of them move for some time. Dean is a solid, reassuring weight despite the fact that he's making it a little difficult for Castiel to breathe. They trade lazy kisses when they can manage to make themselves move that much, and eventually Dean reaches down to hold the condom as he slides carefully out of Castiel. He has to let go of Castiel's hand to tie it off and toss it out of the way, but he grabs at the hand again before Castiel can really miss his.

“What would you have done if I found the lube and condoms in the bag?” Castiel asks after a while.

Dean shrugs one shoulder. He's tucked into Castiel's throat again like he's intent on living there. “Dunno,” he rumbles. “Probably woulda made a joke. Maybe... mighta had the guts to say something.”

Castiel kisses his shoulder, smiling against the skin. “You're better at actions. It does make more sense that you didn't want Sam to come with us now.”

Dean groans. “Let's not mention my brother while we're naked, okay? And that's... I didn't actually plan this. The sex, I mean. It was just kinda a hope. I mostly just...”

He shrugs again.

“You wanted to pretend,” Castiel ventures. It's not quite a question.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees easily. Then, “Sorry I woke you up.”

“I'm not.”

They doze off for a while after that. Dean slides off to the side at some point, but he tucks Castiel in against him to make up for it. When they wake, the first hints of dawn are streaking the sky with pink and gold. They're covered in dew, but they're warm where they press into one another. Bashful looks trade with laughs when they scout around for their clothes.

Dean rolls another joint and makes Castiel smoke most of this one. He complains about putting his jeans back on, stiff and smelly with the alcohol Castiel spilled. The angel is enjoying his renewed high so much he just lets Dean mutter and stomp around picking up their trash and clothing. He's trying to act like everything is normal, and Cas thinks it's probably best to let him.

They drive home in silence, except for the tap-tap of Dean's fingers on the wheel.

Castiel is prepared. Despite Dean's promises of a next time, he's fully prepared for this to never happen again. For Dean to pretend it didn't happen in the first place. So when Dean shyly catches Castiel's wrist just inside the bunker, Castiel is surprised. When Dean kisses him, in full potential view of Sam if Sam chose that moment to walk in, Castiel is nothing short of thrilled.

“I'll get tested,” Dean murmurs against Castiel's lips. “Since, y'know, you have such an aversion to condoms.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Sam come tumbling sleepily down the stairs. He watches Dean notice. He freezes for a moment, but he doesn't let go of Castiel's wrist and he doesn't back away.

“I would appreciate that,” Castiel says, only half teasing.

Sam stops in the middle of the room, squinting at them. He rubs his palms into his eyes and squints again. Then he smiles, eyebrows rising into his hair as he shakes his head, and continues on to the kitchen.

With a sigh of relief, Dean ducks down for another quick kiss before he heads in the same direction, muttering something about coffee.

Castiel doesn't think to move until Dean's hold on his wrist tugs him along.

~

END


End file.
